Flesh
by clockworkindy
Summary: MATURE FIC. Bakura can't help but give into temptation sometimes. Introspective, YBxMI


Letting his long white hair filter through the gaps between his fingers, Bakura sits on his bed in only a pair of boxers and his open blue over-shirt.

Frustrated.

Of course, he's only human, at least as long as his host lives, humans all have desires. Wants. Urges. The nagging feeling that won't go away. He hopes but nothing is distracting enough.

So, what can he do but give into such guilty pleasure? Imagining something he's not sure could ever happen. 'Will never' he corrects himself, but a part of him holds that fantasy close.

Bakura has his quirks, he could be cruel for the sake of cruelty, he could be cold and he could be ruthless. But, something inside him gives way every now and again, if only in a very rare happenstance. Could he be confusing his own feels with his host's compassionate personality? Regardless of that, Bakura made a note time and time again to never let his feelings show, aside from the rage he feels whenever the Pharaoh comes to mind. Sometimes, in a playful mood he'd lead someone on, to disgust them usually, draw a reaction as a form of entertainment.

And then there's Marik.

The boy about his host's age, deep amaranthine eyes and his rich buff skin, he seemed to direct his attention to him in a way that Bakura couldn't really comprehend.

Oh he'd admit he could be cruel to the boy, most certainly, but his torture is only to tease him, and maybe secretly to hope his playful efforts of seduction might be taken seriously. Maybe, one day he could match his so-called bluff, perhaps even want the same from Bakura as Bakura wanted from him.

Frustrated.

He crawls into bed, between the comfort of the sheets, losing his clothing piece by piece. He begins to imagine the object of his desire under him as he kneels. His well-toned chest a stark contrast to his host's own pale and bony structure. He can imagine tracing down his body, as Marik releases a moan in anticipation. He imagines Marik to be as frustrated as he is, every physical gesture Bakura makes teases him more and more until he reaches breaking point.

He'd tease and tease and then enter, every now and again a spank or a pull from the bed, maybe lift his body from the bed, grab his hips and pound for a few intense moments. He thinks about how fun the different reactions would be, Marik clawing at Bakura's back, glare into his eyes with a look of what could be desire or fear. Not like it mattered, to stare into those eyes in any case would be enough to appease him. He imagines taking hold of his shoulders, his long thin white hands sliding down his back's carvings and feeling each and every last detail in it. He can't help but find it fascinating, almost what gives him his appeal, the incisions distorting with his convulsing torso as his body spasms from anticipation and frustration. He'd trace it with his fingers and trace his front with his tongue, imagining his salty flesh and toned muscles. He'd struggle to hold himself together. Rise again to give it hard and heavy, only to stumble down, close to climax. He tries not to finish too early, he's lost himself in the fantasy for now. He exhales silently, wondering how far along Marik would be at this point.

He sinks his teeth into his arm and growls, what he wanted so badly to be Marik's flesh, his neck, his shoulder, just to make him scream. He starts to draw blood and Bakura can do nothing but bite down harder along with his grunts, his sharpened fangs piercing ever deeper, his voice shaking.

Would he beg for more? Would he beg for mercy? Bakura didn't care, the thought of Marik's submission almost too delicious in his mind.

For him to be his bitch and no-one else's. Bakura's little fuck toy.

He wanted so badly to destroy him inside and out, and once the boy releases against his will he'd go again and again, for his own selfish enjoyment. Just to make him beg. For more or less, once again he couldn't care, his moans and screams and gasps filling Bakura's mind so vividly. A montage of each and every last thing he would do to him or make him do, how they'd experiment and how he'd react, the flow of blood and juices as one.

He can't help but claw at the silky sheets and buck under the pleasure of release, letting go of an awkward and inhuman sound. He quivers and almost collapses onto the bed, still imagining the boy there. The blood from his arm seeps into the sheets but Bakura barely feels his self infliction, nor the created mess.

He takes his arm and tastes his own red blood still wishing it was Marik's. He wants so badly for the boy from his fantasies to still under him, so exhausted and weak, shaking. He can see it, he traces his scars on his back, so sensitive he'd feel every last motion. And then with his bloody mouth he wants to kiss him, the coppery taste cultivating in his mind and his mouth. He thinks what Marik's blood tastes like, nothing he'd ever tasted would probably compare to Marik's flesh. He takes one last lick at his arm, moaning from the temporary satisfaction he holds in his mind, his body throbbing and exhausted.

He thinks about what he'd give to fuck him rough all night long. And maybe even hold him until morning, if he so desired, the intricate designs on Marik's back rubbing against the spindles of his Millennium Ring as they slept. Maybe in the morning they wouldn't have to part, they could go at it again and again.

Frustrated.


End file.
